


Trust

by Davechicken



Series: Prince of Omens - Egyptian AU [7]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Light BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-22 09:53:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22347574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: A demon, an angel, a ribbon, a ring, and a promise.Collaboration with Whiteley - links in the footer!
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Prince of Omens - Egyptian AU [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1508924
Comments: 39
Kudos: 243
Collections: Shinbi34's Recommendations





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [WhiteleyFoster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteleyFoster/gifts).



The sun was low, kissing the horizon, dragging her cover of light back to wrap herself up tight during the night. Aziraphale was watching the colours change, and Crowley was watching Aziraphale. 

“I really did miss you.” After so many years of keeping his tongue in check, keeping the ruse in place… even before, it had been the delicate balancing act. Trying to avoid Hell’s wrath, trying to interfere only in ways he wanted, unable to even be honest to the one creature he held any desire to do so with…

Letting honest words slip out, even now, was difficult. His lips quirked as if he was smirking out a joke, unable to hold onto the sincerity he actually felt. A defence, from nerves, and one that had made people (Aziraphale) misunderstand him on more than one occasion. 

But he said them. He said them. And it felt both like his wings had finally spread wide enough to lift him as high as he could care to go, and like the very Sphinx herself was lying, stonily, paws pinning his chest down and watching him struggle like the disaffected cat she was. 

Snakes didn’t like cats.

“I didn’t doubt it.”

“Liar,” he choked out a tiny laugh.

“Crowley!”

“You doubted plenty. But - it’s not like I didn’t give you reason.”

The angel’s blue eyes looked pained, but understanding. “You always were very convincing, when you wanted to be. I… should not have let you. Not have let you make me doubt you.”

“Safer.” He shrugged, and started to comb fingers through the hair trailing over his shoulder. “For both of us. And all your lot.”

He meant, of course, the Humans. And not the other angels. By the way Aziraphale’s nose tilted down to the ground, he knew he understood.

The angel swallowed audibly, and then looked back up. “Would you like me to help with that?”

“Huh?”

“Your hair.”

“Oh.” He’d forgotten he was playing with it. A nervous habit, one he’d only really allowed his hands to adapt when he’d been alone enough. Alone, and thinking of Aziraphale. “Uhm… yes? Thanks?”

It wasn’t needed, but it was a kind gesture, and Crowley tucked his knees in tighter as his angel moved to sit on his haunches behind him. He was a little shorter, but not so short that when he rose up on his knees like that, he couldn’t reach to groom him. 

Monkey-stuff. Wasn’t it? Social bonding. Touch and things. Primitive, and yet the heat against his spine and the light tugs to his scalp were--

“D-don’t lose that,” he mumbled, pink-faced.

“Hmm?”

“Ribbon. Don’t lose it.”

“Oh, it’s… it’s important to you?”

“Nghhmmm… sort of.” Oh, blast it all. “I mean. I had to improvise a little.”

“Crowley?”

“Fine! It’s - you gave it to me. Sort of. Well. You did. And - and I didn’t have anything… you left, and… I - oh, shut up.” He sunk his face into his hands, and seethed. It was sentimental in the extreme, and now his ears stung, and the hands in his hair stopped moving. 

Shit.

“...angel?”

“We - I was - I was simply thinking about how I could rectify - but we’re… there isn’t much here for me to make a--”

Oh. He glanced over a shoulder, and saw plump hands worrying over the white ribbon, and the golden band. Fussing, fretting. 

“I don’t need… things,” Crowley said, carefully. “I had those. Had more gold than I could ever need, or use.”

“Oh.”

He turned, slowly, and tilted his head like he was trying to better hear something most definitely never spoken. “I don’t even really need that, now. Not… if I have you. But I…”

“I understand.” Aziraphale ran a thumb along the soft fabric, and Crowley could feel that touch as if it were on his own skin. “But I would like to. Some day. And in the meantime… perhaps something a little less ostentatious?”

“What do you have in mind?”

***

Crowley had known the angel was less than ‘ordinary’, or - rather - _more_. An innate awareness, like the way a needle stroked just right would always point North. 

Still. This was more than he’d expected, and was absolutely delightful. If he didn’t think too much about how Aziraphale had picked up on these particular quirks of Human-style behaviour. 

“Do you trust me?” he’d asked, as if there could ever be any doubt.

Nodding had been insufficient.

“Do you _trust me_?”

A croak, and he’d forced out an: “Always.”

There had been something there, in his eyes. Something kindled by their earlier conversation. Even honest, they skirted around what they meant, what they intended. A ring given, a promise of its partner to follow. They weren’t like the Hebrews, or the Egyptians, but they were close enough to understand what needed understanding.

Low lights. Scented oils. The air in their tent heavy and ponderous, swirling in serpentine chains of fragrant smoke. 

Ardour. That was the closest word. Maybe some covetousness. Absolutely some possessiveness. A nervous kind of certainty, which needed the reassurance of the answer, as much as Crowley needed to give it.

Surer, the second time. “Always.”

Feet tucked snugly under his rump, Crowley hadn’t recoiled an inch when the ribbon was held up before his eyes, simply let his lashes touch his cheeks and consented to the blindfold. 

“I was blind not to see you, my dear,” the angel whispered, as his face hovered now here, now there. The sound of his breathing so loud, so close. 

It felt as if he were scenting him, were smelling for the strongest points of his interest and arousal. Crowley wondered if the scent enticed him, and tilted his head back to offer his throat further. 

“You’d have to be. I’m not--”

“Shh.” A single finger touched his lips, requesting the silence. “Please only speak for questions. Asking, or answering.”

Blind, and effectively mute? The thought sent a shock into his chest, and his body swayed at the simple power of the request. The doubt Aziraphale had felt was fading, or perhaps burning off in the fury of his actions. Crowley subconsciously offered more, his shoulders dropping and his posture shifting to indicate his submission.

Which. Was what this was. He was allowing it, because a simple swathe of fabric would never remove his sight unless he agreed. He was giving his control up, and it felt… safe to do so. Safe, and right.

He nodded again, and was rewarded by a hand cupping his cheek, and a kiss to his forehead. The small contact was intense, made richer by being unexpected, and the demon fought the swaying of his hips to remain upright.

“I may not be able to find a suitably impressive gift to show you how I feel… so this will have to do until I can. You will tell me if you need to stop. Understood?”

“Yes, angel.” His voice sounded different, but he was beginning to lose the ability to think deeply enough to understand why. It felt like it was coming from further away, like time was as slow as a Nile made wholly of syrup and honey. 

“Good.”

The hands left, and Crowley was bereft of the heat and reassurance, and suddenly started to panic. His hands lifted, but the soft ‘shhhhh’ made him lower them again. 

“I’m not leaving,” Aziraphale explained. “I’ve done enough leaving. I’m staying right where I belong: here. With you.”

Crowley wanted to screech. Scream. Holler. Something. Anything! But all he could do was tilt his closed, covered eyes towards the sound of his voice. He wasn’t leaving. He wasn’t. It was okay, now. It was okay. 

“I’m going to undress. I want you to listen. I want you to - I want you to know what it sounds like. I want you to know how much I want you.”

Oh. Oh! But he wouldn’t be able to see! (Yes, he knew that was the point.) He could imagine those hands pulling the simple fabrics up and away, the feet sliding from the sandals, the twists and turns and creases where he bent. He could imagine watching the torturously slow undressing, but it wasn’t the same. He’d imagined it often enough, alone, and now he had to--

“Do you need me to stop?”

A simple question, and one that cut him to the quick. No one had ever, really, asked him what he wanted before. He’d learned to just take and be damned (quite literally) with the consequences. But here, Aziraphale was all too honestly wanting to know if he still wanted to continue.

Part stubborn, bullish pride and part… part desire to please him, to… satisfy him… yes. He wanted this. Even if it was torture, it was the most equisite kind.

“Yes.” 

It felt surer in his head, but after a pause, it seemed to be enough.

The hush of cotton on skin, the rush of air behind, the thud when it hit the floor. He tried to catalogue each piece. Tried to identify them, to convince himself he knew what was going on. Then a hand was under his jaw, above his throat, guiding him to his feet from below the chin.

Crowley rose like a snake successfully charmed, and gasped when he felt fingers work to unwind the layers of his clothing.

Aziraphale took care not to touch his skin, only dragging the cloth away and baring him to the scented air. He stepped from the puddle of silks, and felt oddly more exposed, without being able to read the angel’s expression. 

“You truly are beautiful,” he murmured, as if he’d been listening straight into his head. 

“Angel…” 

“Yes, my dear?”

He’d spoken out of turn, and his hair fell around the dropped halo circling his eyes. “I’m sorry…”

“You may speak.”

What to say? What would be enough? Could he even convey how he felt? Were there even enough words in any tongue to speak it?

He dropped to his knees, head lifted, fire coursing across his crown down to his nipples as he offered himself wordlessly. I’m yours. I’m yours. I’m yours.

The sharp intake of breath said he’d spoken just right, and then he felt the hand on his cheek again, and he leant into it. 

“Do you need me to punish you for ignoring me?” Aziraphale asked.

Yes. And doubly so if Aziraphale needed it, too. “Yes, angel.”

Slow pacing around, and he heard the unmistakable scritch of a courtly fan dragged across the floor. “I shan’t hurt you. Not like they hurt me. You’ve been hurt plenty, in your own way. But this will settle any debts we ever had.”

Which, Crowley was beginning to think, Aziraphale had already forgiven. More angelic than the lot of them. More--

It didn’t hurt, but the thudding sensation of the fronded fan kissing him from shoulder to hip was enough to make him call out. So he would flog him. Not to punish, and he was sure Aziraphale could never even bring himself to whip someone like he’d been whipped… but the play-act of it, the ritual… to cleanse them both of the memories. 

It was - it was right. He knelt more surely, offering his back, and gasping his breaths in as the touches grew harder. Never painful. At most, it was a warm, spreading sting. Swish. Swish. Swish. Drumming him deeper into his mind, pushing him further into his angel’s arms.

He trusted him. With everything he was, he trusted him. 

“So good for me,” Aziraphale cooed, and bent to kiss along his neck and throat. “So good.”

“Th-thank you,” he purred, his hands clenching at thin air. 

Warm oils, suddenly, that fell from the ladle to course tracks down his back. His hair kept aside with one hand, then the other worked the nearly-too-hot fluid over the light aches and stings down his back. Crowley was in H-- was in rapture, arching into the touches. It did not feel like punishment. Not at all. Nor when the simple shawl was placed over his shoulders, and his hair allowed to fall back down his spine. It felt like the opposite of torture.

His lashes brushed against the ribbon as he let himself be moved into position, and then felt Aziraphale move to kneel astride his thighs. 

Crowley would give him anything he asked, right then.

Probably would have, anyway, before this. But right now, he’d smile when he gave it. If he could remember how his facial muscles worked.

“Now… I’m going to let you climax,” Aziraphale started, with the tone that meant the other shoe would soon drop. “But only if you allow me to make love to you right after.”

Crowley did laugh. And maybe smiled. “Yes?”

“You don’t sound certain.”

“I don’t know why you’d think I wouldn’t say yes.”

Aziraphale laughed, too, and then an oil-slick hand grazed a sheer path down the centre of his torso, the inside of his wrist nudged against the tip of his cock. “Greedy serpent.”

“ _Your_ greedy serpent.”

“I like the sound of that.”

And just like that, the wrist turned. Fingers smothered their way from root to shoot, and Crowley nearly spent his load right there. It was as much the promises inherent in this than the actual touches, and he felt like that weight were now on his tongue. A stone he’d tried to lick-push up a mountain, a reality so weighty that it was all-consuming. All-enveloping. 

“ _Angel_.”

It wasn’t a title, a race, a political affiliation. It was truly how he saw him, and only him. Even through the blindfold, his presence was blinding. Awe-inspiring. Fierce, brave, beautiful, and… more. Wicked, but in all the best ways. Kind. Funny. Just. Just. He loved him, and that was it. As simple and as complicated as that. He loved him. This angel of his, this troublesome mix of everything good and bad, and he felt the blindfold get heavier, but he didn’t realise it was because of the tears he leaked into it.

“My dear, dear demon,” Aziraphale cooed, sounding just as affected. “I swear to you, I will never be parted from you again. Please. Trust me.”

“I do. I do! Angel… Aziraph---aaaah!”

The hand started to work him, then. Work him like it knew his body as well as what was much deeper within. Unlike all those fantasies, it wasn’t slow and cruel. Aziraphale wasn’t angry. That wasn’t the emotion he could feel radiating, but love. Love, protectiveness, affection, hunger… care. 

Crowley could barely handle it. It was not what he deserved. It was too soft, too sweet, too…

“Yes, that’s right.” A face near his, a brush of cheek, of chest. Another hand over his throat, his shoulder. In his hair, gripping and gliding. “That’s right. Don’t hold back for me. I want to see--”

“I c-can’t, I - I c-c-can’t, I--”

“Trust. Me.”

The words, right in the shell of his ear, and a swipe of tongue with a message stamped and sealed into his flesh with a bite that had him _howling_. Crowley’s toes scratched uselessly as he spilled hot, furious pulses over his lover’s hand. The twitching deep in his balls that didn’t seem to end even when he did, his head falling forwards to glance against the angel’s. 

His body was wracked. Still tense, even though he’d reached his climax. Wrung out and jittery, and he couldn’t have moved his arms if he’d been asked.

Instead, he went where the hands guided him. Rose up and leaned against the chest that cradled him close, and started to relax as he felt the probing, sticky finger push its way inside. Aziraphale clearly wanted to do this the old fashioned way, and the thought of being fucked back full of his own release made him moan and push his ass out further, asking for more.

“Good boy, such a good boy for me. I love you, my dear. I love you. Let me show you.”

“Yes,” Crowley managed, from even further away, now. He was molten sunshine, or liquid fire, or… something. All he knew was his body yielded to every request, and he moaned as those fingers started to scissor him wider. 

At some point, he’d become draped over the angel. His arms slung around his neck, his hips spread wide to straddle him. He bounced just a little, and kissed his neck in gratitude. He ran his cheek against his angel’s, humming a low, tuneless song as he relaxed all the way.

Arms held him, and moved him, and lowered him. The thick intrusion making his body sigh and roll, each breath and release welcoming him deeper. Deeper, until he couldn’t take any more, or there was no more to take. Hands around his waist, his shoulders, and soft, dreamy pushes of a nose against his. Crowley had forgotten the blindfold was even on, so lost to every other sensation that pulsed out from his core and made his spent cock twitch, pressed between them.

“Crowley,” came the voice, from somewhere inside his heart and also behind his ear.

“Mmmm?”

“I trust you, too.”

That broke him. Just. Shattered something, and the tears turned into sobs, into arms that bundled him in firmly, soundly, safely. He lifted his hands without permission, holding onto his angel’s shoulders, and started to bounce and ride like his life depended on it. It was messy, passionate, disjointed, but pure. Pure need, pure lust, and… and…

“Crowley!”

The blindfold - and a good chunk of hair - all caught and pulled, as he felt the start of his angel’s climax building. The pain wasn’t pain, it was sharp and bright and beautiful. He called out wordlessly at the throbbing, aching hunger in his belly, and didn’t stop until he felt the pressure of release fill him deep inside. Crowley clenched his thighs hard, and sat down firmly, grinding his balls and cock against the soft, pale belly in front of him. 

It was good. So, so good. He turned his head at the tug to his hair, and smiled into the kiss his angel pressed into his lips. It calmed, and the kisses became softer, gentler. The hand became less of a vise, and more of a gentle wave of petting and caressing. 

Aziraphale’s cock still snuggled inside of him, and he gave a teasing squeeze to hear the hiss and moan. 

When the blindfold was slipped from his eyes, his slitted pupils complained at the sudden light. He’d grown used to the dark. 

“If - if you think I’m ever letting go of that _now_ ,” Crowley rumbled, nodding towards the sliver of white. 

“Oh, most assuredly not. But perhaps I can get you some… more?”

“...more?” he asked, unsure.

“Well… I had thought… four. One for each limb…”

Oh… oh yes. Crowley squirmed harder onto his lap. “Next time? Just… want hold me now.”

“For as long as you need.”

Forever, Crowley thought, sounded about right.

**Author's Note:**

> Artwork by the very talented and gracious Whiteley Foster, who you can find on [Insta](https://www.instagram.com/whiteleyfoster/) (and 18+ on [NSFW Insta](https://www.instagram.com/whiteleyfoster_nsfw/)).


End file.
